


Margin for Error

by stormproofmatchgirl



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Confusion, F/M, Feelings, Fluff, Hangover, Hurt Bellamy, Kinda, Nurse Clarke, chaste but meaningful exchanged glances, chaste but meaningful touching, except adorableness!, implied Bellamy/Bree, innuendo with no payoff, post 4x08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 13:03:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10514310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormproofmatchgirl/pseuds/stormproofmatchgirl
Summary: Apparently, Bellamy decided to have some fun. Now all he has to do is remember what that fun entailed, and why it hurts his face so much.





	

“Bellamy? You in there?”

Technically, he’s awake. But moving his body feels like a terrible idea. And if the person knocking at the door were anyone else, he’d probably ignore them. But it’s not anyone else. It’s Clarke.

“Bellamy?” Luckily, the mere utterance of his name from her lips gives him enough of an adrenaline rush to climb a fucking mountain. Which is basically what answering the door equates to at this point.

She’s only been gone for two days, but it’s felt like an eternity. And now, here she is—solid, alive, and stunning as ever, if a little blurry. He flops a hand down on her shoulder just to be sure. “Clarke. You’re back. You’re really back.”

“Woah,” Clarke says, and suddenly her hands are all over him: less in the frisky lover kind of way, more in the concerned friend kind of way. Like he’s tipping over or something. Which, fine, might be the case.

Clarke looks at him like there’s something written in a foreign language across his forehead. “What happened to your face?” And at first, all he can think of is that it hurts, and he’s not exactly sure why. His brain is also throbbing like crazy, so the whole thinking and remembering routine is a bit slow-going.

Clarke looks even more displeased now that it’s clear he’s not exactly on top of things, mentally. “Sit down. You could have a concussion.”

But he knows this feeling, and he’s like 95% sure it’s not a concussion.

85% sure.

“S’okay. I’m fine,” he tells her, as she sits herself next to him on what he’s just now realizing is… oh, fuck. This is Clarke’s bed. This is Clarke’s room.

He slept in Clarke’s bed? Alone? That’s either really pathetic, or really creepy. Possibly both.

Clarke must pick up on his horrific realization—and think it amusing—because she shakes her head a little and smiles. “Niylah told me you were in here. I said she could use my room while I was gone.”

Bellamy shuts his eyes for a moment, hoping to abate the increased pressure in his head. Not only did he violate her privacy, he also rendered her guest homeless. “Clarke, I am so, so sorry.”

“Hey. Don’t worry about it,” she says, shifting a leg onto the bed so she can turn and face him directly. She’s got her serious doctor face on now. “I can see why she took pity on you and didn’t kick you out. Did someone do this to you?”

Bellamy wants to answer. He wants to concentrate on remembering what the hell he did last night after foraging in the woods for hallucinogenic nuts, but Clarke is brushing his hair away from the bruised part of his face and the tips of her cool fingers are grazing his scalp and her gentle blue eyes are squinting into his. So he’s having a difficult time thinking about anything other than Clarke. Clarke, Clarke, Clarke.

_It’s BREE, asshole! My name is Bree!_

Oh. There it is.

The party, Jasper, Harper, and Bree. Bree and her fucking long blonde hair. Jobi nut tea, possibly dancing—which hopefully, no one else remembers—and then at some point… oh, shit. Did he seriously bring her here? To Clarke’s room? And then… call her Clarke? Wow.

Bellamy’s head throbs just trying to wrap his brain around the stupidity of it all. He white-knuckles Clarke’s blankets and lets out a defeated groan.

In response, Clarke pulls her hand away, as if from a hot stove. “Sorry! Did I hurt you?” She does that thing where she bites her bottom lip a little and furrows her brow. God, it’s cute. But if his fuzzy memories are any indication, he’s the last person in Arkadia deserving of Clarke’s concern and attention right now. He should really try harder not to enjoy it.

“No. No, I just… remembered what happened.”

“And?”

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Trust me. You don’t want to know.”

More accurately, he doesn’t want her to know, and can think of nothing more humiliating. If they have nine days left to live, he at least needs to leave a decent last impression.

Clarke pulls back a little and her eyes widen as something dawns on her. “You were partying! With Jasper and the others.”

Blood rushing to his cheeks, averting Clarke’s gaze, he nods. He can admit to that much.

“Wow. Okay. I’m a little sorry I missed that.” She sounds almost amused.

“Yeah? I’m not.”

“So how did that lead to this?” she asks, nudging her chin towards the swollen side of his face.

Bellamy shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I deserved it.”

Clarke’s expression softens. “Hey,” she says, squeezing his arm. “Kane told my mom about what happened. About Peter and his dad. That couldn’t have been easy.”

And, fuck. How does she do that? How does she manage to take every stupid thing he does and find a way to empathize with it? Like she’s completely unwilling to yield to him any of his well-deserved self-loathing.

He’s tempted to tell her exactly what happened just to prove her wrong.

Tempted.

“You should cut yourself some slack,” she adds.

“You sound like Jasper.”

Clarke shrugs, and reaches for something under her bed. “Odds were we’d agree on something eventually, right?”

It’s a flashlight. She clicks it on and off to make sure it’s still working, and then reaches for Bellamy’s chin.

“Look at me for minute, okay?”

Bellamy feels suddenly breathless. Confused. Until she lifts the flashlight up. Of course. It’s just so she can check his eyes.

Bellamy stares past her, his heart pounding senselessly. She passes the beam of light across his pupils and watches them expand and contract.

“You’ll live,” she says. The humor is quickly lost in the fact that they may both be dead in a little over a week.

Unless…

“Clarke? The Nightblood… did your mom and Jackson…"

Clarke sighs. “Not exactly. I’ll tell you everything. But first I’m going to get you an ice pack for that black eye.” And with newfound purpose, she pushes herself up off the bed. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Kay.”

Before she heads for the door she pauses, looks at him thoughtfully. “And Bellamy? Even if it did go south at some point… I’m glad you got to have some fun.”

She means it, but there’s a sadness just below the surface and he can’t tell if it’s just the same old end of the world stuff, or if there’s something newer, darker.

“Next time, let’s have fun together, okay?” The words spill out of his mouth without him even realizing. Words that assume a future, assume possibilities. Maybe it’s completely delusional. But somehow, it still feels like the right thing to say.

Clarke’s lips part, but she says nothing for a moment. She wasn’t expecting that. Neither was he, to be honest.

It’s too much. He should say something else. Take the pressure off. Let her—

A smile appears. “Yeah,” she says. “I’d like that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ok. I’m sorry for ruining Bellamy’s sexy times, but it was absolutely worth it, and lbr, it’s not like there’s zero margin for error when hooking up with your soul-mate’s doppelgänger and drinking the funny tea.


End file.
